God Of football

Chapter 962: International Break, A No Go!

The list went live at noon.

Phones buzzed first.

Then televisions changed channels.

Across various mediums, names rolled across screens in neat rows, familiar and expected.

Unai Simón. Raya. Carvajal. Rodri. Pedri. Yamal.

It was what was expected, but when the list scrolling stopped, and got done with, people couldn’t help but lean forward.

Some frowned.

Others refreshed the page.

But the name never appeared.

In a bar just off the Gran Vía, a man in an old Spain shirt tapped the screen with his thumb, slow at first, then harder.

”That’s it?” he said, not angry yet, just confused. ”That’s the whole list?”

His friend took the phone, scanned it once, then laughed under his breath.

”He’s not there.”

Around them, the same realisation spread in pieces.

”No Izan?”

”Did I miss it?”

”Scroll back up.”

On social media, the reaction arrived all at once.

Screens filled with comments and thoughts of the selection all fired at once.

”So everyone else has to risk their players, and he gets to stay home?”

”Must be nice.”

”Special treatment again.”

Those statements got followed almost instantly, with respective replies.

”Special treatment? He’s seventeen. Seventy-two matches last season. Seventy-two.”

Someone broke it down beneath that, line by line, like they had been waiting for this moment.

”Thirty-five league games. Fourteen Champions League. Six senior caps. Two more in the Nations League. Seven at the Club World Cup. Eight in the domestic cups. Plus the Super Cup final and a few more I am too lazy to add.”

Another comment appeared under it.

”And people are shocked he’s not called up?”

In a small electronics shop in Valencia, the owner shook his head as the discussion played out on the mounted TV.

A customer beside him crossed his arms, watching the ticker crawl beneath the squad graphic.

”They’ll say he’s dodging it,” the customer said.

The owner snorted.

”Dodging what? Burnout?”

He gestured at the screen.

”This is a World Cup year. That’s just a smart move by Luis De La Fuente, who just wants nothing more than to keep his best player of the stretchers for the World Cup.”

”We all know how international break gets. Some are friendlies, but they result in so many injuries.”

Back online, the tone began to shift.

The annoyance softened, giving way to something closer to acceptance, though some hint of the former still prevailed.

”Well, why was Pedri still called up then. Look at his eyes. He doesn’t look like he gets sleep.”

”When it’s your club, you want rest. When it’s the national team, suddenly everyone understands.”

The debate rolled on, fast and messy afterwards, until a new message cut through the noise.

”De la Fuente is about to speak.”

It spread immediately while replies stacked up beneath it.

”Where?”

”Which channel?”

”Link?”

People stopped arguing and started scrambling to watch and see if they could get the reasoning behind Izan not being called up, if there was any they hadn’t talked about already.

.....

The room settled once the cameras found their angles.

A moderator stepped up first, offered a brief welcome, then turned toward the rows of journalists.

He raised a hand as the murmurs died down instantly.

”Let’s keep it civil, as always.”

Luis de la Fuente took his seat without hurry.

He unscrewed the cap of his bottle, took a measured sip, then placed it back on the table, lining it up with the edge as if out of habit.

He looked out at the room, scanning faces he already knew too well.

”All right,” the moderator said. ”First question.”

The opening questions were cautious and safe as usual.

A reporter near the aisle asked about long-term planning, about how this window fit into preparations for the World Cup.

De la Fuente smiled at that, a short laugh escaping him before he could stop it.

”The World Cup?” he said. ”That’s still a long way off. We’ll talk about that when it’s closer. Right now, we’re focused on what’s in front of us. The qualifiers and the games ahead.”

A few chuckles came, followed by pens going back and forth on notebooks.

More questions came, some about tactics and the balance between youth and experience in the team.

De la Fuente answered evenly, never rushed, never offering more than he needed to.

The room stayed calm, almost relaxed, until a chair scraped back near the centre.

A reporter from Marca stood up.

”Luis,” he began, voice steady but loaded, ”you’ve selected Carvajal and Huijsen, both of whom have had recent knocks and some physical issues. Yet you’ve left out Izan Hernández, who is fully fit. Can you explain that decision?”

The room shifted, like the floodgates for similar questions were opened.

Even the cameras seemed to lean in on the face of the Spanish manager.

De la Fuente smiled, small and patient, while looking keenly at the reporter.

He then picked up his bottle again, took another sip, and then set it down before addressing the question.

”I don’t have any report that says Carvajal or Huijsen are injured,” he said.

”If they felt they weren’t ready, they could have declined the call-up. That door is always open.”

A murmur moved through the room as he leaned back slightly, hands folding together.

”As for Izan,” he continued, ”there’s nothing mysterious about it. No special reason. No hidden message.”

He paused, just long enough.

”He played seventy-five matches last season,” De la Fuente said.

”Seventy-five at an age where most players are trying to break into a team. He averaged eighty-two minutes per game.”

The pens stopped.

”That’s league football, Europe, cups, international tournaments,” he went on.

”It adds up. You don’t need to be a doctor to understand what that means for a young body.”

Someone shifted in their seat, ready to jump in, but De la Fuente kept going, his tone calm, almost conversational.

”I know what some of you are thinking. Yes, Lamine is here. And yes, he’s played a lot too. But the numbers are different. They don’t come close. The load is different. Each player is handled individually.”

He shrugged lightly.

”This isn’t about favouritism. It’s about thinking ahead. If resting Izan is considered favouritism, then think what you want, but we’ll see who’s right in the long run.”

Across the country and more, the reaction was immediate.

”That’s it. End of story.”

”He’s right. Seventy-five games is insane.”

”So this is what protecting a player looks like.”

There were still dissenting voices, of course, but they were fewer now, drowned out by the clarity of the explanation.

Back in the room, questions continued.

The tension eased. De la Fuente answered a few more, knowing the hardest part had already passed.

Back at home, Izan sat on the edge of the couch, phone resting in his palm, eyes unfocused as the muted television played highlights he was no longer watching.

His screen lit up.

Miranda.

He answered before the second ring. ”Yeah?”

”I guess you start unpacking,” she said, the smile clear in her voice before anything else.

”You’re officially staying put.”

Izan leaned back, letting his head rest against the cushion.

”Don’t we get more money the more I play?” he posed to Miranda, who seemed to go away from her phone for a second.

”Yes, you do, but you also have to know how to rest sometimes.”

”Honestly, I didn’t want you going anyway. You’ve looked exhausted lately. This is a break, Izan. Use it properly.”

He glanced down at his feet, slipping off a sock and then rubbing his toes.

There was a short pause on the line, then her tone softened.

”If you want, we can get you checked. A specialist, maybe. Or you could travel for a few days. What are you thinking, Greece?”

He smiled at that, picturing the sea for a second.

”That sounds nice,” he admitted.

”But I’m okay. I’ll stay home. Rest properly. With you lot around.”

Miranda hummed, satisfied but still cautious.

”All right. I know you are probably going to sneak off to Colney when we leave the house, but it’s alright. I’ve got to run. We’ll talk later.”

”Yeah. See you.”

The call clicked off, leaving Izan once again alone and in the quiet company of the white samoyed resting beside him.

”Good girl,” he muttered after Miko licked his wrist, scratching behind the ear of the dog.